Scars
by Skeeterdayz
Summary: There's one rule that Duncan has that takes precedent over any other. Don't. Point out. His scars. TRIGGER WARNING: Self-harm and suicide mentioned.


**I really wanted to write something about Duncan, and it's a little angsty, but I'm satisfied with the way it turned out. **

**TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions self-harm and suicidal thoughts.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own total drama**

* * *

I had a couple rules regarding myself.

Don't touch my stuff, unless of course you want your lungs kicked in.

Don't insult me, because that's an obvious death wish

And don't even_ think_ about talking shit about me behind my back, because I _will_ find out.

And then there was that one rule that I never said out loud.

Do not. Point out. My scars.

Not enough people know about that rule however.

It was a rule I had made up myself and attempted to make clear non-verbally that they were not something to bring up, seeing as how I hated talking about it or even acknowledging them.

I wore the long sleeves for a reason. Believe it or not, they weren't just for show. I constantly pulled and yanked them down trying to cover my arms. It actually become a habit that I managed to get rid of before coming to the show. It never _completely_ stopped, however.

But Chris always had fucking swimming challenges, and what idiot would go swimming with a shirt a long sleeve shirt on? So, I was left with no choice but to suck it up and just pretend like I didn't notice they were there.

It's not like I didn't see people staring at my forearms. Everyone always thought that if they looked quick enough then I wouldn't notice. But unlike most people, I'm not stupid. I always saw everyone's shocked look after seeing them for the first time. It annoyed the hell out of me, but I figured that if I got mad about it it'd probably only make things worse. I just had to pretend that I didn't notice.

I hated how everyone always just assumed they meant I was spiralling into a deep depression, or crying myself to sleep every night with "dangerous" thoughts or something. Get real. I wasn't.

At least not _anymore_.

I'd managed not to do anything like that in years.

The things about scars though, was that they were hard to get rid of.

Everyone knows me as the delinquent; the bad-ass who just doesn't give a fuck. And I am. I'd just never admit to anyone that I'd had emotional problems.

What kind of "bad-ass" would shiver and cry in his bed when no one was home? What kind of "rebel" would turn off all the lights in his room and lay on the ground shaking and trying to figure what to do with himself?

I was fourteen when it started. Fifteen when it ended. Sixteen when the scars were fading, but not fucking fast enough.

I was a normal rebellious fourteen year old to everyone around me, and my friends thought so too. I was the kid who got detention every day, the kid who got kicked out of classes for telling the teacher to "go fuck themselves", the kid who went in and out of juvie since sixth grade. Not the emotionally unstable fourteen year old who found himself back in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub and mentally fighting himself in order not to pick up that stupid blade.

I hated thinking about it. There was nothing more that could ever make me angrier than thinking about that one night freshman year where the thought of suicide was the only thing on my mind. That night no one was home and the blade was right there. That night my parents could've been there, but they weren't.

It was a memory that gave me a vulnerable feeling that was just made me feel sick to my stomach. I didn't have thoughts like that anymore, and I didn't have to hide my depression with a sly grin. Somehow I'd managed to climb out of that hole when I was fifteen, and to be honest I've never been more grateful for anything.

It always made me want to get as far away from where I was and make sure it never happened again.

But there was always going to be those people who stared.

Like Cody.

Cody always stared.

And he thought I didn't notice.

But I did. All the time.

Cody never said anything, but he always stared.

I overheard people talking about it sometimes, and that thoroughly pissed me off.

"_Have you ever noticed Duncan's arms?" Of course, Katie would be the clueless person to ask that question. _

_She was with Sadie, naturally. And there were a few of the other girls around her, the ones who would usually talk to each other about mindless things. _

_I was around the corner, not lashing out on my anger, but just listening to what they were saying. _

_ "They're like totally scratched up and junk." Katie continued, gesturing to her arm with her other hand's nails. "Like he's been fighting a bunch of cats or something." _

_ "I've seen scratches like that on this kid at our school, remember Katie? He was so weird." Sadie added on to what Katie was saying. _

_ "You mean that loner kid Jason? Didn't he do that to himself though?" Katie asked. _

_ "That's how you get those kinds of scratches, by like using a razor blade or something." Sadie replied. _

_ "So Duncan cut himself with razors?" _

_ My eye twitched. It was a different kind of feeling to hear someone say it out loud. _

_ "I think so." Sadie answered. "Maybe that's why he such a jerk sometimes." _

_ "Or, maybe you shouldn't assume anything." Gwen's voice surprised me. "Maybe you shouldn't be talking about something as serious as his scars." _

_ "Gwen's right." Bridgette spoke up. "He may be a jerk sometimes but really, let's not joke about that guys." _

_ "We weren't like joking about it or anything." Katie clarified. "It's just like...a little weird you know?_

_ "Yea...like I don't get how someone could just like cut themselves. Wouldn't it hurt?" _

_ "That's the point." Gwen mumbled that. I heard it though. _

_ "It's just weak." Eva began. "Who'd be dumb enough to cut themselves just because they're sad? Any normal person would just get over it. It's just fucking stupid." _

_ "It's called 'self-harm', Eva." Gwen sounded mad. "And in case you didn't know, it's not 'being sad', it's an actual mental disease." _

_ I listened closer. _

_ "How is it a fucking metal disease? Everyone gets depressed." Eva shot back. "People like Duncan just use it as an excuse to get attention from people." _

_ That comment made me want to punch a hole through the wall. _

_ "No, people like Duncan actually have had fucking emotional problems." Gwen ranted. "People like Duncan have felt so fucking depressed and alone to the point where cutting yourself is the only sense of relief you have in this-this-" _

_ Everyone was staring at Gwen now, shocked looking a bit scared or confused. She looked around, breathing heavily. Quickly she tossed down the sketchpad in her lap and stood up,seconds before she stormed off. _

_ "Wait, Gwen-come back!" Gwen ignored Bridgette's pleas. _

_ "Let her go." Eva said. "Let her go cut herself just like him." _

_ Gwen rushed around the corner, only to walk full speed into me. She looked up immediately and stepped back. _

_ "Did you hear all that?" She asked. _

_ "...Yeah." _

_ "Everything...?" _

_ I nodded, but didn't say anything. I didn't want to look mad to Gwen's face. _

_ "I..." She started. "Look, I don't know if you really did-you know-cut but-" _

_ I pulled back one of my sleeves just enough to reveal a few straight scars on my forearm. "Tweedle-dee was right for once." _

_ Gwen eyed the scars for a minute before looking back up at me. "They really shouldn't have been talking about it in the first place..." _

_ "You're right, they shouldn't have." I agreed. "But, I've learned to just live with it. If I stopped to get pissed over every time someone noticed them I'd probably end up right back where I was." _

_ "...How far did you go?" She asked, looking me intently in the eye. I knew what she was implying._

_ "...I've thought about it before when I was depressed. Never actually attempted it though." _

"_Are you, okay? Now? I know they're scars but, still." _

_I raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine." I answered. "Is there a reason you're so concerned?" _

"_I...I just want to make sure you haven't relapsed or anything...being someone who's been through the same thing." _

"_...You don't have scars-" _

_She rubbed her thumb against her left arm enough to rub off some pale looking makeup. They were pretty much faded, but he could still see the remnants of those sharp lines. _

"_That explains why you never stared like everyone else." _

"_I hate it when people do that. That's why I hid them." _

"_Not as bad as people pestering you about it." _

"_Exactly...like why can't people understand that you just don't wanna-"_

"_Talk about it." I had said that in unison with her. _

Gwen understood.

Gwen was the only one who fucking got it.

She understood that I just didn't wanna fucking talk about it.

I didn't ask why she cut. Or when she stopped. I just knew how annoying and hard it was to think about that kind of shit.

We didn't talk about it much after then. But there was always that mutual understanding we had.

I never told her exactly why I used to cut either because I still hated thinking about it.

But she got it.

* * *

**If you think Duncan may have been a little ooc, then my apologies. Again, I just really wanted to write something with Duncan being the main character. I have no idea why I ended it so abruptly but there. Not a Duncan/Gwen fic. Gwen just gets it.**

**~DEUCES**


End file.
